


mutiny is just another name for doing the right thing

by avtorSola



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, Military Jargon, Psychological Torture, This is not a happy au, Torture, War, War Crimes, Will add TWs as needed, basically the military commits war crimes against POWs, depictions of wartime violence, grey morality, military takeover AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avtorSola/pseuds/avtorSola
Summary: A series of loosely-connected oneshots from my Revolutionaries AU - Killua and Gon are caught in the middle of a civil war in which the military and government of the country they're staying in turns on its own people. They end up siding with the protesting citizenry and end up becoming sort-of reformist/anarchist leaders.Aka, the AU in which Gon and Killua quite literally tell oppressive governments to fuck off and are rebellious little deviants that will not sit down and shut up or play nice, ever.And it's not pretty for anyone involved.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, there's some pretty graphic scenes in here, as the first scene is inspired by Whumptober prompts 4 and 5 - Human Shield and Gunpoint, respectively. This whole series is going to deal with some pretty heavy shit - ask me to tag if you think I've missed anything.
> 
> This isn't going to be a nice fic. It will be morally grey at best. DL;DR.

Being caught in the midst of a civil war had never once been on Gon’s bucket list. And yet, here he was, barricading the door to their rented flat with the couch that had been in the living room, the streets of Pata-shi a warzone. Again. Alluka was crouched against the back wall, her chest heaving, a bullet graze bleeding on her thigh. Gunfire rattled the windows. 

It was supposed to be just a simple reunion trip, and a way to put the past behind them. So they’d returned to the Republic of Rokario in the selfsame Mitene Union that had been the cause of most of Gon’s nightmares. It had been…difficult. On both of them, and Alluka, who had to watch them remember the first war of their young lives. There had been a lot of tears already, and just two days ago Gon had been forced to watch Killua disintegrate, sobbing for nearly two hours through waves of panic and grief. They’d held each other for a long time after that.

But the tension in the country had bubbled over during the night. There had been riots in all of the larger cities for weeks now, the citizens protesting – sometimes violently – over new laws calling for the revocation of citizenship for individuals deemed ‘enemies of the state.’ But today the military had been deployed against its own citizens, and people were bleeding and dying in the street, running scared.

And now Killua was somewhere out there, racing like a streak of blue across the city, protecting everyone he could while Gon got Alluka to safety.

Gon leaned over, pressing a kiss to Alluka’s forehead, his hands shaking. She was staring, horror coloring her face white.

“Stay here,” he breathed, pressing his phone into her hand, the beetle phone with its satellite calling probably the safest method of communication available now that the city was on fire. “Stay hidden. Killua has his phone, and I’m going to find him. Call Leorio and Kurapika and tell them we need help. Please.”

Alluka’s lower lip trembled, but she nodded and started dialing, looking terrified. Gon stood up, not sure that leaving her would be the right thing to do. But he needed to find Killua. To help him evacuate the city. And Alluka would be safe in the Padokean embassy. 

He hoped.

He leapt out of the window, Ten flaring around his body like dry water and hit the concrete with a crunch. The tanks rolling down the street paid him no mind, but the foot soldiers whirled around, guns at the ready. 

Gon bolted.

He ran at a galloping pace no normal human would likely match, muscles pumping and boots smacking cobblestone and asphalt with hollow thuds. The chatter of clanking rounds behind him shattered the alleyway, brick cracking under hot metal, and Gon ducked, weaving between buildings like a low serpent. He came out onto another street, this one smoking with the scent of blood, a few lone corpses lying in the road. And he darted off again, heading towards the plumes of smoke in the city center, En pulsing around him at occasional intervals.

It took him an hour to reach the city center, his free time spent carting the injured and hiding to safe places around the city, to the bunkers where hundreds cowered in fear of their own government. But eventually he made it, soaked in sweat, and stepped into the square, where a stiff breeze met his nose. 

Nausea boiled in his stomach, and he collapsed against the side of a cracked brick column.

The square was a wasteland. Three blackened tank shells smoked without flame, the rank stench of charred flesh thick in the air, and bodies were piled around a low shelf of steps. Soldiers were stationed around this raised dais, two machine guns bolted to black steel tripods on the corners, and another group of soldiers surrounded a large cluster of living people, rifles at the ready. Gon inhaled sharply, trying to breathe through the horror.

Off to the side, a young soldier broke down, tossing his gun away, and ran towards the group of silent, terrified survivors, tears running down grime-stained cheeks.

“I can’t! This is _evil_, I can’t-!”

There was a sharp crack, the echoing thunderclap of metal striking stone, and the young man staggered and dropped like a stone. Blood pooled around his head.

The rest of the troops were silent. One, a young woman, looked away. And a general stepped forward, stars colored the iron-red of innocent blood on his collar, pistol smoking. Cold eyes regarded the corpse for a moment, then turned to the mass of huddled citizens. 

“Where is the electric one?”

Gon’s heart leapt into his mouth, and he stood up, staring, eyes wide. Killua. Electricity. The charred tanks, not scorched by fire but by lightning, a desperate attempt to stop the onslaught of death.

Killua’s Godspeed would have run out by now.

The general in front of him bared his teeth, and leveled his handgun at the nearest cowering man.

“Answer me, or you die.”

Gon pulled his En in, massing it in his fists. Either Killua was in Zetsu right now, or he wasn’t anywhere close by. And that meant this group would need saving, before he found Killua again. He ignited Jajanken with a whispered snarl, and stepped out from behind the pillar he’d slumped against. 

And then the blue blaze of lightning streaked across his vision, and he heard the crack of gunfire.

It was like the world had slowed down to an impossible degree. Killua’s long, lean body was glazed in crackling Nen, lightning prickling over his pale skin, and he’d pounced, the trajectory of his leap aimed directly at the man with stars of iron on his uniform. His claws were out, those blue eyes near black with rage and the Zoldyck taint of callous murder.

But the gun hadn’t been pointed at Killua. It had been pointed into the crowd.

And Killua had just leapt into the line of fire.

He heard himself scream as time resumed and Killua’s claws struck out, blood splashing over the street in a messy fountain. The general’s corpse fell slowly, the severed neck gushing. Behind the sagging body, Killua stumbled, lightning fizzing out in a dull crackle. His claws had softened, one arm hanging limp at his side. Even at a distance it was impossibly easy to tell why En hadn’t detected the former assassin earlier. 

He was running on fumes. 

And now, with a bullet in his shoulder, it would be a miracle if he managed to spark his Nen to life again.

Gon started running, sprinting for the man he’d loved for long absent years, fear pounding in his chest even as the soldiers whirled around, one of the thirty present raising her gun and aiming directly at Killua. The Zoldyck wavered, turning around with massive shadows under his eyes, his free hand grasping at the bullet wound bleeding deepred onto his grey turtleneck.

He saw the guns and his blue eyes closed, acceptance smoothing his features out. Gon cried out again, making one last desperate lunge for Killua, every ounce of Nen he had thrown into his calves to jump the distance.

_ Even Godspeed couldn’t outrun a bullet. _

He felt the warmth of Killua’s skin before he heard the snap of gunpowder, hands wrapping around that fluttering chest and tackling. Killua made a faint noise, shock and surprise mixed into one, but there was no resistance beyond a weak struggle and he toppled. Gon landed on top of him, tucking that tired body under his own securely.

He waited for the pain, but none came.

Killua was limp beneath him, breathing but shaky, exhausted, and after a few long, terrified seconds Gon looked up warily.

The soldier who’d pointed her gun at Killua lay on the ground, a bullet hole through her temple, another young woman in uniform standing over her, sobbing through the shock. Her weapon smoked faintly. The other twenty-some soldiers looked between her, the dead general, and the fellow woman she’d killed. Slowly, they dropped their guns. The crowd of pinned civilians mumbled in surprise. A few broke off, sprinting for safety. Nobody stopped them. The machine guns on the dais were silent, their gunners sitting in varied degrees of panic and shellshock.

“…I can’t kill my own people anymore,” she whispered, staring at Gon with wide brown eyes. “I can’t.”

Beneath him, Killua chuckled faintly in delirious derision, his white hair streaked grey with concrete dust. Gon sat up, peeling away from Killua carefully. The former assassin didn’t move from where Gon had tackled him to the ground, taking the opportunity to lie still, his Nen barely a flicker. Neither of them said anything in response to that, and the female soldier shook her head at them.

“Please,” she choked out. “Please keep saving my people. Run until he’s better. Please.”

Gon looked down, then slid hands beneath that tired frame and lifted, taking his friend and love into his arms in a single smooth motion. Killua bit his tongue on his pain, leaning into Gon’s chest. Blue eyes curved into crescents of Zoldyck rage.

The young solider quailed under that ferocious, fevered glare.

“Save them yourself, first.” Killua snarled faintly. “I’m nobody’s personal army.”

She flinched, as if struck by a hammer, then swallowed, glancing around at the soldiers surrounding her. One of them nodded, and her expression changed, turning hard. The brown of her stared turned to slate in the shadow cast by her helmet.

“…I’m going to.”

It was enough. Gon felt it when Killua relaxed in his arms, and he smiled, hazel burning amber, waiting for his injured partner to speak. Killua mumbled something like ‘thank god,’ and closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his palm to his bleeding shoulder. And Gon smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Mutiny would be bloody, and they all knew it. 

But it was something to fight for, and neither he nor Killua would watch from the sidelines.

Not now that the idea had taken root.

“Then we’ll be back,” he promised.

She saluted as he took off running.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for Whumptober prompts "Dragged Away" and "Shackled"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: intentional torture, military brutality, general war crimes...

They’d caught them. They’d taken them.

Well, not all of them. Alluka had escaped, running as soon as the shit had hit the fan and the bunker had been breached. He’d made her take Inara and the others as well, desperately asking Nanika to stay safe, asking Alluka to run. They’d fled through the tunnels just before the exit had collapsed, and Killua refused to believe they’d been crushed by the rubble.

For the sake of his own sanity, he had to believe they’d escaped. And for the sake of this country’s people, he had to believe they escaped.

But he and Gon hadn’t.

They were in the back of a truck now, sitting side by side against the metal sidewall, four guards standing above them. Killua hissed at the touch of cold metal on his temple, the hollow ring of an officer’s pistol flush against his head, but stayed seated, heart pounding with building fear. Gon stared at him with wide amber eyes, kept obedient by the bullet poised to fire through Killua’s brain. Neither of them spoke, breathless. The Nen seal carved into Killua’s back bled steadily, as did the seal on Gon’s waist.

It had been how they’d been captured – the Nen Specialist hired by Rokario’s government had finally hit them with her ability to cancel out Nen. She’d gotten Gon first, a lucky shot only made possible because he’d been desperately hurling Jankenpa into the side of the resistance’s computer system, trying to erase their tracks, to protect their people.

He’d destroyed all of their sensitive information, but it had been at the cost of his Nen sputtering and dying for two minutes. And in that short span of time he’d been swarmed. Four soldiers and two newbie Hunters just barely able to use Ten properly, all on top of him, pinning him to the ground while the Specialist had cut her Nen sigil into his side, sealing his Nen until the wounds healed. Gon had been near screaming, biting back pain behind a jaw clenched so tight it should have cracked. He hadn’t stopped struggling the entire time, breaking bones that didn’t belong to him in the process. But the scream he’d made when his Nen faded to nothing-

Killua had snapped three of the soldiers’ necks in blind rage before the knife had been put to Gon’s throat.

And after that, it had been easy for the soldiers to capture them. Gon had been screaming for him to run, that he’d be fine – but Killua couldn’t chance it. He’d never been able to. Not Gon. Never Gon. So he’d let the lightning fizzle out, and let the rush of uniformed fighters throw him down and grind his face into the concrete floor. He’d let himself be restrained, lay still while the Specialist’s knife had cut the Nen seal into his back, the blade dragging against his spine.

Then a spark of agony, burning like nothing he’d ever felt before, took hold of his whole being, and he’d cried out in pain for the first time since he was five and smoking out the ears from electricity. Gon had struggled fruitlessly, eyes wide in horror at the sound of Killua’s scream, but it was too late. They’d fallen into enemy hands, and their Nen was gone.

And now they were bound with Nen-reactive steel, under guard in the back of a vehicle driven by some poor soldier from the Rokarion military, on their way to gods knew where.

Well. Prison and torture of some kind, Killua knew, his expression grim. After all, they were partially responsible for a decent number of the skirmishes and small battles springing up in nearly all of the Republic of Rokario’s cities. And they both had a kill count higher than many of the military combat units they’d taken out. If nothing else, the leaders of the oppressive military government would want retribution. But they’d be tortured first, either for information or the satisfaction of their captors. Hell, they might even hire someone from the Hunter association to come in. Again.

Gon’s knee bumped reassuringly against Killua’s, the amber eyes glittering with anxiety. His skin was warm to the touch.

They drove for what felt like forever, sitting in silence on the steel floor, the shackles biting into their wrists and rubbing painfully at the skin there. It wasn’t unbearable, by far – Killua had been through far worse before – but as he twisted his hands against the metal, a chill settled over his chest, compressing his breath.

There was no give.

Logically, he’d known there wouldn’t be any give in the shackles binding his hands behind his back. No squeal of protesting metal, no subtle creak of chainlinks breaking, nothing. The Nen-markings etched into the surface made them strong – far stronger than he could break without the use of Nen. But the restraint sent ice sliding down his spine in a thin trickle of horrifying realization.

Gon bumped his knee again, pleading evident in his tired gaze. Killua said nothing, still acutely aware of the gun near his head. But he tried to stay calm – for Gon’s sake. They couldn’t afford for fear to cripple them now. They had to give Alluka a chance to rescue them.

The truck slowed down, and the brakes screeched with rust as they came to a halt. The soldiers guarding them stayed put, still carefully watching them from seated and standing positions alike in the gloom of the truck’s interior. Killua stared hard at the door, waiting as movement began to rustle outside, the sound of boots crunching on gravel a dull murmur through the steel enclosing them. The waiting game continued for another fifteen minutes, raised voices echoing distortedly through the truck’s metal walls, the words muffled. Whatever was going on outside, it was bustling.

Dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and he leaned into Gon with a sharp breath.

“They’re making a spectacle-”

The words had barely left his mouth before the metal butt of a rifle cracked against the side of his face, knocking him away from Gon and into the riveted steel floor of the truck, the sudden whiplash of blunt pain clacking his teeth together. Gon snarled, but the barrel of a rifle beneath his chin kept him still. Killua grunted, cheekbone throbbing, heat blooming across the side of his face, and rolled onto his side, trying to sit up.

The soldier who’d struck him bent down and seized a fistful of his hair, dragging him upright. Killua gritted his teeth, iron from a bitten cheek flooding his mouth, scalp aching from the rough treatment, and tilted his face away as the guard leaned in with onion-smelling breath.

“Keep your mouth shut.” The tone was low but surprisingly not nasty, more warning than cruel, and the hand snarled in snowy hair dropped, letting him slump back against Gon’s chest, the dried blood on his shirt almost certainly flaking off onto Gon’s tee. But they only had a few moments to sit, hearts beating frantically against each other’s skin.

Light flooded into the gloom, the doors thrown open wide, and hands wrapped around Killua’s biceps, hauling him up with bruising force. He was forced to move, bound arms wrenched up so he had to bend slightly forward to walk. More armed soldiers waited at the end of the truck bed, along with an older man in the pressed olive uniform of generals, and a woman in a dark gray blazer and pencil skirt. Both of them were smiling smugly, clearly satisfied, and Killua bared his teeth at them as he was hustled down the metal grate ramp and closer. Gon made a dark growl of threat behind him.

The woman laughed a bit and took a step closer. Killua had to fight his instinct to not lash out – if only for Gon’s sake.

“Ah, so these are the two most troublesome rebels, hm? Fire and lightning,” she drawled, lazily looking between them. Then her gaze hardened. “The two that burn my soldiers for fun.”

Gon’s temper ignited like sparks in dry grass and he jerked a step forward.

“Says the government that started slaughtering their own citizens over peaceful protests. At least we honor surrender.” He spat, eyes nearly black in anger, and the woman’s expression curdled behind glass spectacles. The general at her shoulder made a mild chuckle, wearing an insidious smile laced with the poisonous wrath of retribution.

“That big mouth will come in handy later, ma’am, don’t worry,” the man wearing the bloodred stars said then, speaking from under a few pathetic wisps of grey mustache. Killua felt his own temper flicker, fighting the urge to turn dark, to let the Zoldyck in him bleed through. Gon’s brows knotted together in black fury, a kind of anger akin to that which he’d directed at the Spider, all those years ago in Yorknew. The political woman quailed a tad under that fierce gaze, then glanced at Killua, standing rigidly there, hands flexing against the steel fruitlessly. She glanced back at Gon.

Her lips quirked up.

“Separate them,” she said, and Killua felt every ounce of breath leave his lungs. Her escort nodded approvingly, and Killua felt the hands on him pull backwards at the general’s approval, away from Gon.

Away from Gon.

Something in him snapped and he howled, lashing out with all the strength he could muster, hands turning to claws behind his back. A kick crushed a man’s body armor, snapping every rib beneath in an instant, and he jerked one arm free of his captors’ grip, struggling towards Gon. Shouts erupted, metallic clicks echoing in the deep concrete well the truck had driven them into.

He heard the general curse, swearing lowly, and Killua bared his teeth again, the leak of blood in his mouth earlier painting the sneer a garish pink. He twisted violently, snapping a knee out and crushing a man’s skull through the Kevlar helmet, then jumped into the air and cracked his shoulders. Instantly the joints slid out of place, the pain a distant sensation, and he used the extra distance to jump over his bound wrists, bringing his claws together in front of him. He growled, shoulders flexing, and with two painful pops everything was back in socket.

He spun around wildly, looking for Gon, and froze.

“On your knees, or he dies.”

Gon had a gun to his head, the wispy-mustached general staring dispassionately at the two dead soldiers crushed by Killua’s panicked struggle, his pistol flush to the bronze skin. Gon was flat on his face on the concrete, dazed, no less than eight men loaded with body armor and equipment pinning him down. Blood trickled from his temple – he’d clearly been struck, and without Ten to protect him, Killua could only hope that a concussion was the worst he’d gotten.

The hammer on the general’s heavy handgun clicked into the ready position.

“On. Your. Knees.”

Slowly, snarling, Killua sank, tugging fruitlessly at the shackles on his wrists. The soldiers came grudgingly closer, wary of approaching. The woman in the suit jacket swallowed hard at the sight, also fearful of the men with guns and all sorts of modern protective gear. Next to her, the military general coughed delicately.

“Break his legs,” the general ordered lightly, and Killua felt ice slide into the pit of his stomach again. “He won’t need to walk where he’s going. And someone chain his hands to an iron collar, if we have any suitable.”

There was a brief pause, a kind of mutual horror descending over both Killua, Gon, and the foot soldiers who’d just been given a direct order. The man closest to him went pale, his grip on his rifle shaking. Killua stared, first at him, then at the general who was so very obviously breaking any attempt at hiding war crimes, and then at Gon, who’d gone pale ash, his bronze coloring pallid with dread. Several of the junior officers and enlisted personnel looked sick.

But the soldier in front of him sighed tremulously and set his rifle in another man’s grasp, looking Killua directly in the face as he tiptoed closer. A second man came up as well, and when Killua stayed frozen, another two came up, hands shaking. He went limp, docile as they pushed him down and onto his face, unresisting when those trembling hands wrapped around his calves and ankles, when they uncuffed him for just long enough to pull his hands behind his back again.

The apology was quivering, pitched so low Killua could barely hear it, but as fire launched over his knees, nausea crawling alongside pain into the pit of his stomach, the men whispered regret and terror. Twin cracks broke the silence, like gunshots but with the strange pop of splintering bone, and it covered the sound of their horror. Lucky for them. Gon made a low cry of protest and grief.

Killua gritted his teeth, breathing through the agony crawling up his back, radiating molten heat from snapped bone. He didn’t make a sound. He’d been through worse. But it hurt. _Gods_, did it hurt. Walking was out of the question now. He didn’t even want to move, the slightest flinch enough to shift the broken bones and grind the jagged ends against each other in the cocoon of his muscle.

The four men holding him down withdrew slowly, and the oldest of the bunch carefully came around to his head, placing a hand on his shoulder, close to the back of his neck. The general and his politician companion smiled in approval, their conceit clear through the haze starting to build inside Killua’s skull.

But it didn’t stop that man’s hand from trembling against Killua’s skin.

“Now. The white-haired one goes to isolation. The dark-haired one goes into the main prison.” The general’s voice was cheerful, and Killua sought out Gon’s bloody face and those amber eyes of his, trying to memorize it. “Take them away.”

Hands slid under his arms, pulling him as close to upright as possible, and two soldiers gripped him tightly. Killua tried to relax his jaw, legs dragging uselessly against the ground, pain spiking through the throbbing breaks in rolling waves. Gon stumbled as they hoisted him upright, pupils unevenly dilated. He lunged drunkenly for Killua, to no success.

Killua watched through the pounding ache as his best friend was pulled backwards, away from him, and into the black maw of the prison above them.


End file.
